The Sleeping Seishi
by Serious Black
Summary: [REPOST] Nakago spins a dark, sensual tale of one long-forgotten spring night. Contains yaoi, non-con, and abuse.


Disclaimers: Fushigi Yuugi and its marvellous characters were created by Yuu Watase, not me. I don't own them and this fic is for non-commercial purposes only.  
  
*SPOILER ALERT: "The Sleeping Seishi" is set on a night between episodes 20 and 21 of the anime; it also touches on aspects of Nakago's past revealed in the last episode.  
  
THE SLEEPING SEISHI  
  
by Serious Black  
  
If you are ever in the land of Kutou, and happen to find yourself in the Imperial City, be sure to request a tour of the garden on the palace's West Lawn. It is said that the fragrance of honeysuckle here will revisit you in dreams forever after. The exquisite ponds and ornamental fruit trees are a marvel; surpassing, I am told, the beauty even of Konan's royal willow grove.  
  
I have never seen that famous grove, nor visited the palace of its emperor, Hotohori. But I dearly hope to someday.  
  
As for the beauty of the gardens in Kutou...I can vouch for that. I am, after all, Shogun of the Imperial Army of this land, protector of the soil which yields such perennial wonders.  
  
I also appreciate beauty, as I trust the following story will demonstrate.  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
Dusk.  
  
I am on one knee in the grass, the perfectly manicured grass of the West Lawn, as I hold an evening audience with my Emperor. He is pleased.  
  
"Incredible," he rumbles, absently fondling the concubine at his shoulder. "A Suzaku Seishi? Willing to fight for the Seiryuu no Miko?"  
  
"Hai, Heika."  
  
"Willing to die for her?"  
  
"If need be."  
  
"Quite a prize." A soft chuckle. "How old?"  
  
I keep my face expressionless, my voice neutral, as I answer, "Sixteen, perhaps seventeen."  
  
"Hn. Sixteen...a nice age, neither boy nor man. Comely?"  
  
The concubines giggle.  
  
I look at the grass. "Hai. I suppose."  
  
He will not ask, How have you accomplished this? How won a warrior of Suzaku for our kingdom? Fool that he is, he never concerns himself with the particulars. My Emperor's greatest failing is arrogance, his assumption that I lay the groundwork of his dynasty as complacently as his groundsmen laid the garden surrounding us. Staring at that finely-tended evidence of his power, I allow myself a moment of loathing. But only a moment. I know where this conversation is headed.   
  
"How old were you when we took you in, Nakago?"  
  
"Eleven, I believe, Heika."  
  
"Eleven," he says coyly. "Also a nice age, ne?" Without looking up I know that he is staring at me, greedily searching for some sign of weakness, a chink in the armor.  
  
I look at the grass.  
  
"Like a son to us, you've been...yes, most resourceful...." An abrupt yawn, signaling the end of our audience. "Saa. Tomorrow night. We would meet this Tamahitei--"  
  
"Tamahome," I correct without thought, then bite my tongue.  
  
A long silence. The toe of his slipper delivers two cool, casual taps to my forehead.   
  
"Whoever," he says.  
  
I look at the grass.  
  
"Bring him to our receiving chamber tomorrow night after dinner. Formal attire, Nakago, formal attire! Make him pretty for his lord...." There is a rustle of silk, much giggling as he rises from his divan and drifts back towards the palace.   
  
I watch him recede into the twilight. I wait until he is safely indoors before beginning my ritual.   
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
Here is something no one knows about me:  
  
Once the Taste fills my mouth, it lingers for hours. I cannot swallow or drown it, though I have tried everything over the years. Sake. Ginger root. Blood from my own cheek. No good. I can only gag and spit reflexively, waiting for the awful flavor to subside.  
  
I do not know what the Taste is, only that it rises in my throat when the Emperor speaks to me; sometimes it comes with a single glance in his direction (though I am learning to control it). The Taste is sour, salty, rotten. It makes me think of spoiled fish, or the stink of corpses on a battlefield.   
  
I refuse to consider when I might have tasted it first. That is immaterial. It's simply a curious nuisance, nothing more. Meaningless. I deal with it.   
  
So.  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
  
  
I am spitting on the wondrous West Lawn, hunched forward on both knees, gagging and choking until the Taste dissipates enough for me to breathe again.   
  
Rising to my feet, I drag a hand across my mouth and glance quickly about to make sure that no one has seen me in this humiliating state. To my knowledge, no one ever has.  
  
The Taste is still there, but bearable now. I make my way slowly across the grounds.   
  
The stars are brilliant. Out of habit, my eyes seek the constellation whose name and symbol I bear. Usually this comforts me. Tonight, though, the manifest proof of my destiny does not lift my spirits: I am vexed for some reason I cannot explain or fully understand. This confusion vexes me even further. I lengthen my stride, eager to escape the cloying sweetness of honeysuckle in the warm spring air.  
  
But what is this? Someone is sprawled on the steps of a gazebo some thirty feet to my left. I pause. Though the marble columns are obscured by sakura boughs, and dark is falling quickly, I just can make out a slim figure clad in black. Its lowered head is faintly illumined by the glow of a lantern.   
  
Tamahome.  
  
Do I stay or do I go?   
  
Suspicion outstrips my desire for privacy. Treading silently, I approach the gazebo, keeping my gaze fixed on the figure in profile. He is very still. As I close the gap between us I see that he is hunched over something--what, I cannot tell from this angle--and that his brow is drawn in concentration. He lies on his belly, arms and legs akimbo, in a position particular to young boys and unselfconscious peasants. I stop at the periphery of the light and his vision. After a few expectant moments, I frown: the boy is totally oblivious to my presence. A weapon as mean as a dart could kill him at this distance and he'd never see it coming. I expect finer reflexes from my sol--   
  
Aha. He tenses like a deer scenting the wind and raises his head. His eyes scan the darkness, finding nothing.  
  
"Shogun?" he whispers.  
  
I do not reply, but narrow my eyes. Interesting. I know he can't see me. He hasn't even heard my voice. Yet he can tell it's me. How?  
  
"Shogun?" he says again, more loudly. A touch of something in the voice--fear? Anticipation? I can't place the emotion. Yes, very interesting.  
  
"I might have killed you a dozen times over," I greet him as I step out of the shadows. "My soldiers must be vigilant, Tamahome. There is no room for laxity in times of war. Not even," I add, watching him scramble to his feet, "in a setting this idyllic."  
  
"No, Shogun." His head dips, contritely, as he stands at attention. "I will be more alert. I was distracted--I--"  
  
"Save your excuses," I interrupt. A man should never bluster.   
  
Drawing up to him, though, I am forcibly reminded that he is not a man. Not yet. Part of it is the backlighting of the lantern, which casts his body--so small compared to mine--into silhouette. And part of it is my audience with the Emperor, the old man's hideous edict, after which Tamahome appears even younger, more vulnerable somehow.  
  
I think: Poor child. He doesn't even know yet.   
  
My mouth quirks as I cross my arms, stepping past him so that he must pivot to see me. This places me up on a step, further pressing the height advantage; it also faces him towards the lantern's light. Now I can read his expressions.  
  
"What are you doing here, soldier?"  
  
"Oh, just--just reading, Shogun," he says, a bit self-consciously.  
  
There is no denying it: I am surprised. I turn and scan the area where he was resting, and lo--a thick scroll lies open by the lamp. I stare at it for a moment, bemused, as the crickets hum and chirp. So. Tamahome can read.  
  
"A rare skill." I smile benignly. "How did you come by it?"  
  
A pause. His smooth brow crinkles again. "Sir?"  
  
"You are no nobleman, Tamahome. Nor are you a scholar, unless I'm very much mistaken...?"  
  
"Iie...I..." He seems to be struggling. He bites his lip and shifts uncomfortably, blinking too fast. My smile widens.  
  
"Who taught you how to read, Tamahome?"   
  
A fine sheen of perspiration has broken out on his forehead; he is visibly trembling. His mouth opens but no sounds emerge. Confusion roils in his owl-wide eyes.   
  
This...this is the Tamahome I observed six days ago, crying after his defeat of the redhaired Suzaku Seishi. The pain had nothing to do with his injuries; it was the loss of his koibito he mourned. That night he felt some intimation of his former self, the Suzaku Seishi I obliterated in a whiff of narcotic smoke. But it didn't matter then, and doesn't matter now. He is willful, but not willful enough to overcome the combined power of Kodoku and my chi.  
  
The waking-dream drug has put his former self to sleep; only the strongest of his memories and traits are filtered through the haze. That is how Kodoku works.  
  
And I, most conveniently, am here to shape those memories and traits into weapons that will serve my own ends. That is how Nakago works.   
  
Still smiling, I reach out and press a finger to the strip of cloth covering his Seishi mark. "You may remember," I grant him softly, sending out a tiny ripple of power. I feel the Kodoku in his blood rise like a tide to the moon.   
  
His eyes clear. His trembling stops. The slender shoulders relax and he speaks coolly, indifferently, as though relating the plot of a play. "My father taught me. He said it would come in handy someday, that language was the birthright of the poor as well as the rich. He said I would grow to love reading as I would grow to love the ogre mark."  
  
"And do you love it?" I ask, my finger still resting on his forehead.  
  
"Reading, or the mark?"  
  
"Reading."  
  
"No," he says. "Arithmetic is better."  
  
I stir my finger gently, sending out another tendril of energy. "How about your mark, then?"   
  
"No." Suddenly passionate. "I hate it."   
  
"Good boy," I reply. I tap his forehead one last time, then remove my finger.  
  
His reaction astonishes me. With a sharp cry, Tamahome reaches out and grabs my wrist as it withdraws, yanking it desperately back. My fingers are pressed to his temple; my thumb grazes his lips.   
  
I tear my hand away at once. For a moment we stare at each other, shocked. I flush with anger; Tamahome, with shame.   
  
"How dare you!" I demand roughly. "Are you entitled to lay hands on your superior, boy?"   
  
"No!" He exclaims, breathing hard. "No, forgive me, Shogun--gomen, I don't know what I--I just--" The offending hand is clenching reflexively at his side. He is staring past me into the gazebo, unable to meet my gaze. For the first time I notice that the skin beneath his eyes is shadowed and bruised, as though from exhaustion.  
  
All at once I too feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and furious. His odd reaction to my touch has shaken me, undermined me in some crucial way, but I can't tell how. What just happened? Regretting having stopped to toy with the brat, but determined to regain my sense of command, I turn and step up into the gazebo.  
  
"Well," I say brusquely, kneeling to pick up the scroll. "What are we studying tonight?" I settle onto a delicate bench and tilt the pages towards the lamplight: Dowa of the Southern Empire. When I speak again, my voice is full of scorn. "Fairy-tales, Tamahome? These stories are for children, not soldiers. Hadn't you better concern yourself with battle histories and stratagems?"  
  
"Hai, Shogun." He has regained some composure, but his voice still shakes. I'm glad. I let the expensive sheaf fall to the floor of the gazebo; it lands with a faint smack.   
  
"A week ago you fought a follower of Suzaku. You defeated him, but only barely."  
  
The boy's head snaps up. "I would have killed him!" He bursts out angrily. "If that damned conjurer hadn't--"  
  
"Silence!" He scowls and bites his lip. "You acquitted yourself better than I expected. But even in the heat of battle you held yourself back, you hesitated to kill. You were more skilled than your opponent, yet he still lives. Can you tell me why, Tamahome?"   
  
"I was not strong enough," he mutters, more to himself than to me. "I was weak, I know it..."  
  
"Yes. Your Emperor," I lie, "was most disappointed." As though the Emperor could be bothered with the details of a skirmish in a dandelion patch. "Your Emperor expects better of a high-ranking officer in my service. I am sure he will make his demands clear when he grants you an audience tomorrow night."  
  
"Nani...? I'm meeting the Emperor?"  
  
"Foolish boy, haven't I just said?" I force myself to take a deep breath. "Yes. You will meet with His Majesty after dinner. And if he asks how you are spending your hours of training and study, what do you propose to show him?" I gesture with disgust at the collection of stories. "This rubbish?"  
  
"I only wanted a--a diversion," he mutters, coloring again. "Shogun, will he ask after my training?"  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"Will we discuss strategies?"  
  
"It's possible." But unlikely, I silently amend. "Enough questions, wait and see for--"  
  
"Maybe he will demand an explanation for...for last week..." A long hand rises to rub at his still-wounded shoulder. "Shogun, please, you must tell him--make him see that I will never fail him again...or you..."  
  
"Calm yourself, Tamahome--"  
  
"But I must have the opportunity to prove my skill! What will he ask of me?"  
  
What indeed. "A...token of loyalty, perhaps. I cannot speak for the Emperor--"  
  
"Shogun!" His breath bursts out in an impatient gust. "No one is as close to the Emperor as you, it's well-known. 'A token' is so vague! I'm not a child; speak plainly to me!"  
  
I stand, teeth clenched behind a deferential smile. "I'm sorry, Tamahome," I humbly apologize. "Am I being vague? Allow me to clarify. The. Emperor. Will. Want. To. Bed. You. Very roughly, in as degrading and painful a fashion as he can devise; and, no doubt, in a few ways that no one has devised before at all. Still too vague...? After engaging you in a few moments' worth of mindless small talk and heavy-handed double entendre, he will push you onto the bed, grope you, tear your clothes off, and drive himself into you hard enough to make you scream, which I don't recommend as it only spurs him on. Ask him to stop and he will hurt you. Badly. Ask me how I know this," I warn, breathing a little heavily, "and *I* will hurt you. Shall I continue, or is this specific enough for your taste?"  
  
His legs wobble and give out from under him. He sinks onto the steps, his face the exact color of the marble, and I am outraged to find myself thinking again: Poor child.  
  
But now that he knows, there is no wailing. No protest, no indignation. He simply sits, arms wrapped around his chest as though he's freezing in Shi-gatsu, face pale, and murmurs, "I don't care. I don't care. I hope it hurts. I hope it makes me forget everything."  
  
"Are you so desperate to forget?" I laugh, a harsh noise. "You would suffer *that* gladly? I can make you forget, you know, without the pain."  
  
I swear it was only a taunt, a thoughtless gibe. Not an invitation.  
  
But that ashen face turns, slowly, to look at me; and there is a flush of color to the cheeks, a soft, miserable expression in his eyes that says, I know it.  
  
Suddenly my fingers twitch, remembering the smoothness of his skin. The heat of his grip. His gaze wrenches something loose inside me and I take a step backward, appalled.   
  
I have to get out of here.  
  
No. It's too late to flee. I can't--I won't--run like a frightened hare from this boy, no matter how the look on his face twists my guts. I am a Shogun and he is a prisoner of war, whether he knows it or not. I want to shake him, to tell him, This is what's done to prisoners, stupid boy. This is what's done to children. What makes you so special?  
  
Yet somehow he is special. And he's crawled to his feet and moved close to me, very close, so close I can smell the faint clean scents of cedar and soap, boys' scents, and before I can react he reaches between us and places a hand on my chest. It is trembling.  
  
"Nakago-sama," he says, more calmly than he must feel. "I know this is treason. Or insubordination, whatever you call it. But please listen, just for a minute, and then I'll shut up and you can punish me however you like."  
  
"I can punish you now." Damn my curiosity. Always having to see What Comes Next. "...Very well."  
  
He continues in the same calm voice, bordering on hysteria. "They're crushing me. The memories. They won't stay away. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't fight as I should. I can hardly even think." We are looking beyond each other's shoulders, not at each other, but he leans in slightly and my muscles tense. "I want to win for you, don't you see? I want it more than anything. I want it more than life. But these memories--I--you--" his hand clutches at the fabric on my chest, kneading it unconsciously. "You make it stop," he breathes. "You make the memories go down. When you are near, I am at peace. You do that to me. No one else. Only you."  
  
My lips are dry. I lick them, my mind racing. "What about Yui-sama...?"  
  
"Yui-sama..." He struggles to find the words. "I tried, but...we exist to help her, not the other way around."  
  
Is that so? I want to ask. But I'm finding it damnably hard to think right now, let alone speak. He leans in so close that his hair brushes my chin. His whole body shivers like a reed in the wind. "What are you asking for?" I manage.   
  
"Only you," he whispers. "No one else can make it stop. Not Yui-sama, not the Emperor. And I'm dying, I'm losing my mind, I need--oh I don't know what I need, I don't know what I'm asking for, just--please, please--make it stop, make me forget--I'll be perfect, do anything--I belong to you, but if you want me you must help me...help me," he moans against my neck, our bodies pressed together.  
  
"*Help me*..."   
  
________________________________________________________________________   
  
You, reading this, somewhere distant and dry and safe...do you think I am a monster?  
  
Do you think I am blind to beauty?  
  
Do you think that peaches taste less sweet to me, or hearthfires feel less warm?  
  
Oh, I feel, all right. I feel too much. He *makes* me feel, just as he makes everyone around him feel.   
  
Only...there is a place inside me where those feelings are translated. Soured. A distorting glass, in which the desire to protect becomes the compulsion to destroy. The very thing that should evoke tenderness makes hate boil in my gut. So I prefer to keep the glass covered, claiming I feel nothing, rather than be consumed by this angry alchemy.  
  
But tonight the wicked feelings speed through me. I cannot smother them and I know that there are four of us in this gazebo--the Tamahome clinging to me and his true, sleeping self; the me whose hand rises to touch his hair, and the me who hovers above, watching, untouching, untouched. Endlessly calculating.  
  
The hand in Tamahome's hair clenches into a fist. My gaze narrows at the palace. I decide.  
  
You bastard, I think. You can have him, but not first. Not first.  
  
"Put out the lantern," I order.  
  
________________________________________________________________________________  
  
He obeys. He obeys again and again. The night is a continuum of surrender, lit by constellations and a strange, unseasonal influx of fireflies.  
  
It begins like this:  
  
He kneels by the darkened lantern. Unsure of what comes next, he remains motionless until he senses me standing close behind him. He rises cautiously, not turning around.  
  
We stand like that for a long time. The crickets' song grows louder, deafening. When neither of us can bear it any longer, I lay one hand on his shoulder; the other reaches around to press itself, gently, over his eyes. I lean forward and whisper in his ear, "Undress."  
  
His breath catches. He starts to turn and I tighten the grip on his shoulder, making him gasp.   
  
"Iie!" I hiss, my mouth still pressed to his ear. "Do as I tell you. *Only*as I tell you."  
  
He nods. I draw back a bit, releasing him, as he fumbles for an eternity with the hooks and ties on his silk tunic. Head turned only slightly, he reaches up with unsteady hands and lowers the garment, revealing--inch by inch--his shoulders, his arms, his back.  
  
The starlight is so faint, and my mind so spinning, that I must lean in very close to see the contours of his body. So I do. I bend my knees as I sink slowly down his back, my breath tracing patterns on his skin as I go, my lips and hands almost touching him. Almost.  
  
I hear a tiny, strangled sound. His shirt drops to the floor.  
  
If a courtesan could fight, I think--if she could wield a sword, crush bones with her hands, withstand the whip and the rack--her skin would look like this. A dish of honey raked through by knives. Beneath the bandages and scars this boy is beautiful. But no, that's not quite right--I must admit, as I run a finger over an angry welt at his waist, that the wounds are part of his beauty. My groin tightens when I remember: I put them there.  
  
My tongue brushes over a scar, and he moans.  
  
Yessss... I did this to him, I cut him. I claimed him. Yes.  
  
My mouth and tongue lazily bathe the abused flesh of his back. My hands fly up to steady him as he sags, weak with pleasure. I nuzzle, lick, and bite my way back up his body, ending at the tender hollow between his shoulder blades. Gripping his upper arms I blow cool air onto that spot. He shivers and tosses his head, crying out involuntarily, "Nn!"  
  
His responses intoxicate me, though I am darkly amused as well: I've never favored virgins. Inexperience of any kind is irritating. But this one, this *boy*, who has so clearly never lain with a woman--much less a man!--how is it that the sight of him squirming in my arms makes me grit my teeth, harden unbearably, long to make him bleed and climax simultaneously?  
  
Surrendering to it for the moment, I yank him back against me. My mouth ravishes the spot where his shoulder meets his neck; as he pants helplessly, I run my left hand over the exquisite muscles of his chest, now slick with sweat. His heart leaps under my palm. His nipples are smooth and firm, tiny as sakurambo stones. I pinch one and his head lolls back onto my shoulder. My other hand slides slowly down, feeling his flat belly, feeling the delicious sharpness of the bones at his hips, feeling another hardness through the silk of his trousers.   
  
"Ta-ma-ho-me," I tease, puffing tiny breaths on his throat as I caress that hardness, coaxing it. He is beyond the sound of my voice; his own is gone. He simply writhes, his back and bottom rocking against me in time with my strokes.   
  
The hand on his chest rises to ghost itself over his jaw. My thumb caresses his parted lips; it touches the tip of his tongue and then glides over his cheekbone. As it inches closer to his forehead, I focus my chi into a warm, soft wave, then let it break over him slowly, oh so slowly. His body stiffens and strains as the drug in his blood surges. He grinds back against me, his hands flying up to cover mine, crying out on the verge of an unbearable pleasure...  
  
I shove him away.   
  
Tamahome lands in a heap, slides a few feet on the smooth, cold marble, then stares up at me, gasping with shock and covered with sakura petals.   
  
"Sorry." I smile, watching him lie stupidly there on his belly. "But my attention span is so short. I bore rather easily, you see."  
  
He makes a choking noise.  
  
"You have a petal on your nose," I add.   
  
I cross my arms and allow a few moments to pass like that, just enjoying the night air, the dance of the hotaru, the sight of his shuddering, his confusion and pain. His fear that I'll leave him like this, alone with his memory. Aching for me. For my voice and my touch.  
  
"Come here," I command. He hesitates, then starts to climb to his feet.   
  
"No." My voice is low and hard. "On your hands and knees."  
  
More obedience. More surrender. He moves awkwardly, wincing as the rough silk of his trousers shifts against sensitized flesh.  
  
He kneels before me, hands laid guilelessly across his knees, face turned up. There is a knowledge in those eyes now. There is a hunger that was not there half an hour ago. I can see it even in this darkness; it gleams. But I can also see the beginnings of tears. He is still struggling to forget, and he did not exaggerate--he *is* going mad.  
  
"The night is growing warmer," I observe, extending an arm. "Remove this armor."  
  
And of course, he does. With infinite reverence and care, he unbuckles and unstraps the pieces, lifting them from my arms, my shoulders, my chest. I remove the shift beneath, tossing it aside, so that I am left in the thinnest imaginable silk shirt. I feel exposed without the armor, younger. Breezes stir against my chest, a chest that only recently, it seems to me, broadened to a man's width. I look at Tamahome, still staring up at me with that plaintive need.  
  
"I remember when I was smaller than you," I say suddenly. "I remember--"  
  
I stop, biting back the pointless words. I don't expect a response, but he reaches out to touch something by my heel. It's the dowa scroll.   
  
"This..." he looks around to indicate myself, himself, the gazebo, the constellations. "Tonight. It's like a story," he says, and I know he means the kind with wolves, with demons and promises written in blood. The true kind.  
  
"Come here," I say again. My voice is gentle. But my hand grasps brutally at his thick hair, forcing his head and then the rest of his body backwards as I kneel over him. He shudders when his back settles onto the cool marble. My hand skims over the floor, then across his legs, his waist, his chest, leaving trails of pink petals. I seize his wrists and hold them together with one hand, raising them over his head. The other hand slips down to work at the fastenings of his pants. He moans and arches his back slightly.  
  
I notice, glancing up, that his fingertips are brushing one of the gazebo's slender columns. Suddenly inspired, I use my free hand to slip the scrap of cloth from around his head, unwind it to its full length, and bind his wrists with it. Tying them tightly enough to hold--he is very, very strong--I wrap the ends around the pillar and knot it. Helplessness seems to excite and panic him.  
  
"No," he protests, tugging convulsively on the bonds. "I don't want this--"  
  
I slap him hard. "You were *made* for this."  
  
The taste of his own blood subdues him. But the movement of his hips is smooth and relentless, automatic, as though he couldn't stop now if he tried. Following that little rocking motion, I lower my head so that my hair trails over his chest. I let it whisper over his nipples, then his torso; it pools for a moment around his navel, which I dip to lick. My tongue traces an O around that shallow well, delving tenderly in and out, as my hands slide lightly up his bandaged sides. I count and caress each rib along the way. Finally my thumbs settle onto the hard nipples and I massage them; each circular nudge elicits a musical little whine. I continue to lick and nip at his belly. The bucking of his hips grows quicker, more urgent.  
  
This reminds me to finish what I began. With a violent speed I sit up, grasping the fabric of his undone pants, and yank them down over his hips, his groin--they catch slightly on the swelling there, making him yelp--and his long legs. My eyes stay fixed on his body as I toss the garment carelessly aside. The breeze picks up. It must feel as soft as hands moving over his skin, because his eyes close, his color rises. He murmurs something to himself. And then he does a funny thing: he turns his face away.  
  
I smile at the picture he makes. So bashful. "You're shaking. Are you ashamed?" He says nothing, unable to meet my eyes. I run the back of my hand up his inner thigh. His eyes squeeze tightly shut; he half-gasps a little curse. I chuckle. "What language. You *should* be ashamed. You wicked..." my fingers brush his manhood, stiff and feverishly hot. "...Shameless..." I close my hand around him and he tosses his head, No, No. "...Impossible..." Every muscle in his body strains as he strokes himself in my fist, mouth working, hips rising off the marble, arms straining against the bonds. "...Perfect little brat," I finish quietly, lowering my face to his. I unhand him and he wails.  
  
"Talk," I order, our foreheads almost touching. "Tell me what you want."  
  
"Do it!" he immediately begs, panting.  
  
" 'Do it' is so vague," I say. "Speak plainly to me."  
  
With an tortured moan he stills himself, the tears in his eyes spilling over, and pleads, "Touch me."  
  
"Touch you where?"  
  
"Inside," he murmurs, lifting his head so that our temples brush each other. "Inside."  
  
That's what he wants, what he's wanted all along. I hold very little back as my chi washes over him, floods him, soothes his mind even as my hand moves to stroke him again.  
  
"Aaa," he moans over and over. "Aa...aa..." Without breaking the slow rhythm, my free hand slips between us to unfasten my shirt and trousers. I shrug nimbly out of them as I inhale the scents of sweat and arousal behind his ears. My tongue darts out to lick at a lobe. Within moments I am as naked as he, and I lower myself unhurriedly, pressing the length of my body into his.  
  
To my astonishment, he begins to laugh.  
  
"Oh, that's good," the boy hisses, a breathy sound full of lust. "That's perfect!" His chest rises and falls with his laughter. I stare at him because he sounds half-mad. The other half sounds--well, a bit like me. But why wouldn't he? It's my energy he's drunk on; my power reinventing him; my hands between his legs and splayed over his hip, pinning him.   
  
"Brat," I mutter again. He arches his neck and grins. The heated power rolling out of me has made him bold. His arms stretch luxuriantly in their bonds; his legs wrap around me, crushing our bodies together.   
  
"Anything you want," he whispers. "Anything you can imagine--"  
  
"Don't be rash." My busy hand tightens enough to wipe the smirk off his face. "I'm an imaginative man..."  
  
"Yes indeed," he agrees throatily, tugging at his bonds for emphasis. His tone is impudent but his eyes sing hymns of worship, adoration. I cannot bear the weight of that gaze.   
  
Instead I turn my attention to the long legs wrapped around me. Abandoning his sex for the moment, I sit up a bit; then slowly, gently, I prop his left leg up over my shoulder. The smooth flesh of his inner thigh is hairless as a girl's and fragrant with desire. I nuzzle and nip at it, licking at his musky perspiration. The supple muscles flutter beneath my lips. From his own lips tumble soft, scratchy cries. Each glad noise seems to signal the release of a particular memory, borne away on a wave of my design. Finally there is nothing left to bedevil him--he is a creature fully of the moment, replete and satisfied.  
  
"Mmm," he moans, "more...please..."  
  
Well. *Almost* satisfied.   
  
There is a rising surge of restlessness in me; it mirrors the high tide of drugged complacency in the blood of the boy beneath me. I try to ignore it, this--itch. I run my tongue delicately up the side of his manhood, feeling the leg draped over my shoulder tense in response, feeling his entire body arch. He moans his whore's moan. Even as I harden further at the sound, it singes my nerves, makes me long to bite down on something. I engulf him fully in my mouth, once, quickly.   
  
That instant, that single Taste, is enough. The flavor of pleasure is so rancidly familiar that I start to gag.   
  
NO, I order myself; You will not remember that. Not now.   
  
I take a deep, shuddering breath and manage to control my physical reaction. Somewhere inside, though, a demon batters its black wings, screaming for release. My arousal falters.   
  
His voice cracks on a cry: "I want to touch you, let me, oh please--"  
  
I push his leg down and slap him hard again. His body bends like a bow, but not in pain. All the air escapes his lungs in a violent exclamation--"Hhhhhn!"--as though I've punched rather than slapped. His lips split in a grin of utter degeneration. He likes it, wants me to hit him again.  
  
He is...beyond recognition now.  
  
A hot pressure blooms in my chest, a fine complement to the nameless desperation that is making my hands shake. Who is this creature, squirming as I throw myself onto him? Who am I, caressing the insides of this wanton thing with my fingers? Even as I withdraw my fingers and guide the tip of myself to his entrance, I gnash my teeth in frustration. Oh, this hollow feeling, this hunger! I glare down at his greedy, glowing smile--a smile I cannot slap away, cannot break by pounding.  
  
"Nakago-sama," he whispers sweetly. "Do it...do it, yes...make me--"  
  
This time it is myself I shove away, violently. Breathing hard, I kneel close to his feet, clutching fistfuls of my hair at the scalp. He groans in denial as the flow of my energy is cut off. It's no good, it's not enough, none of this is enough. My nails dig grooves in the soft flesh of my scalp, as though, by ripping out my mind, I could see what I've dreamed, find the balm to soothe this terrible longing. What is it I truly *want*...?  
  
My eyes raise slowly to meet his. And when I see the expression on his face--that fawning, half-sick lust mingled with mawkish adoration--realization like a thunderclap splits the cloudless spring sky. For the first time in years, tears burn the corners of my eyes. Finally, I know exactly what I want.  
  
And I know exactly how to get it.  
  
"Tamahome," I whisper, my voice a rough, thready imitation of itself. "I am going to do something now. Something I have never done with any man...nor with any woman."  
  
I crawl over him, watching his face. My body melts slowly, oh so slowly, onto his, until we are skin to skin, chest to toe. I raise a hand, brush his messy bangs aside. Still moving slowly as a sleepwalker, I lower my face.  
  
I watch him until our lips meet. The last thing I see before my eyes close--before I am hopelessly, irretrievably lost--is that vision of perfect trust.  
  
The warmth of my chi spills over us both again; I feel his response in his kiss. The way he liquefies, our bodies effortlessly aligning themselves. The soft crush of his lips speaking nonsense syllables against mine.   
  
It's time.  
  
Intensifying the kiss, I slide my hands beneath him, supporting his back while I tilt his head back further. My power is building, building, carrying us both towards the edge. And just when the golden surge of energy reaches an unbearable peak, it begins: the withdrawal. The creeping, gradual ebb of energy. I pull it slowly back into myself, sucking back my chi as I suck at his lips and tongue, then faster, harder, draining it away, feeling him grow rigid and tremble in my arms. It is guttering quickly now, leaving him naked and exposed; and when my power is all my own again, I reach inside him one last time. I find the lingering traces of Kodoku. And using as much force as I can, I *shove* it down and away.  
  
He chokes against my mouth. I draw back physically; we open our eyes in the same instant, gasping. And a moment after that, both seishi symbols explode with dazzling light. My blue glow mingles with his red, staining the night a soft violet.  
  
Inside that light, his eyes are very bright, very astonished. And oh, so very *awake*.  
  
"N-Naka-go...?" he stutters.  
  
"Tamahome." Funny; I would have thought I'd die before I shed tears over this boy, much less let him see them. Now they spill over and I hardly notice, conscious only of a warmth in my cheeks, wetness in the creases of my smile. I cup his stunned face between my hands. "*Tamahome*."   
  
"Nn-N--" His seishi symbol flickers, the light guttering to dimness. When I withdrew my power and stemmed the tide of Kodoku, you see, I made certain to drain as much of *his* power as possible also; the weakness has come upon him. He blinks in a groggy way, as though the weight of his eyelids is too great. His voice is a tired scrape. "Where am I? What are you doing?"  
  
I say nothing. The corners of my smile curl inward on themselves.  
  
"What are you doing?" he whispers, uneasy now. "What are you--"  
  
I have never watched any face more intently than I watch Tamahome's in those few moments. The play of thoughts and sensations across those fine, transparent features is mesmerizing: I see the story of our evening in miniature there. I see him register his bound wrists, his bruises and swollen lips. I see him register the dowa scroll flung haphazard among articles of clothing. I see him register my nakedness, and then his own. The last thing he registers is the pleasure, the inescapable fact of his arousal at the hands of his nemesis. It hits him harder than the pain, infinitely harder than the sight of me smiling down in triumph.   
  
Lying beneath me, he begins to cry. It is not the sound of desperation; desperation admits the possibility of rescue. He will never be rescued. What I have taken from him can never be retrieved. No, his quiet cries are of grief. It's his own future he mourns: How will he hold his head up, walk as a man among his fellow men, knowing what he knows? How can he bear to touch a woman's flesh when his own has betrayed him so treacherously? He can only murmur the negative to himself between sobs, "no no no no no no..."  
  
The sound of it cracks my heart. What pours out, then, is a desire hotter than any I have ever felt, comprised of equal parts loathing and disgust. He is pathetic. He makes my skin crawl. He makes me burn with hate. I am on fire. My nerves crackle and smoke. I am moving against him, helplessly touching him, wringing gasps from him, wringing the pleasure, feeling my way against his entrance again, silently willing him to Live with it, Live with it, Live with it--  
  
"Live with it." My teeth break the skin of his shoulder. "If you can."   
  
He thrashes under me. "Please--" he cries. I drive a hand across his face, gasping, then hit him again. And again. I punctuate each blow with a kiss until he is babbling to himself beneath his breath, eyes wide and staring. I feel new tension in the taut, trembling body beneath me. The boy's sanity is a frayed cord about to snap. Ecstasy and horror vie for control of his features--my fists clench at the sight--a feather's touch will break him now, a single word, oh! so fragile--  
  
He opens his mouth. I clamp a hand over it.  
  
"In Kutou we have a legend," I pant. "A tale of an empress. She pricks her finger on a chestnut burr and falls into an enchanted sleep, to be roused only by true love's kiss. I wonder--" His whimper tickles my palm, making me moan. "--I wonder, what part of you have I woken tonight, Tamahome?" I drink the agony in those huge, grey eyes; I lock our gazes and grin.   
  
Then I thrust sharply into him.  
  
His eyes widen.  
  
I thrust again.   
  
They flutter closed.  
  
Again, harder.  
  
His back arches.  
  
A final merciless thrust, and--snap.   
  
The cord breaks. As he pours himself in a searing rush over my belly, bowed in a painful arc against the marble, he screams. The noise is barely human. Even muffled by my hand it rips the night along its seams. I screw my eyes shut, as though this will block the sound as well as the sight.  
  
My urgency is not put off; if anything I grow more desperate. I take him again and again, pounding ruthlessly, my body a wick smoldering on the edge of total ignition.   
  
I open my sweat-burnt eyes and look at his face. Give me something, anything, finish me, boy--a spark of defiance, that agony so purely *Tamahome*--  
  
But there is nothing. No one. Tamahome is no longer with me. My lower body falters as I see that I am moving against a husk of a human. His eyes gaze vacantly beyond my shoulder, into the pitch black; his head lolls upon the stone; the tension escaped his body along with his essence. His expression is the thumbprint of despair, not the thing itself, not animated, in the moment. I raise a shaking hand and pinch his neck.  
  
No response. His mind is gone. What is left is no more than a doll. A doll with lips parted slightly, features slack and delicate as--  
  
Delicate as a girl's.  
  
*"...the beautiful face of a girl."*  
  
I will not remember.  
  
*"A wonderful toy."*  
  
No. I drag my hand across my mouth, which is filling now, filling with the Taste. It's in the sickly-sweet air, plugging my nostrils, choking me, I cannot breathe--  
  
*"Mother burnt...five soldiers..."*  
  
I pull away from the thing under me. My focus shatters along with my vision. My seishi symbol flickers out. I crawl backwards, slide down the steps and onto the cool grass, where I am violently sick.  
  
For ages I hover in the dark, lost to everything but the storm of memories pressing my gorge. And just as it subsides, leaving me shaky but calm--controlled--there is a faint noise from the gazebo.  
  
I get unsteadily to my feet and step up to him, searching his face as he stirs.  
  
"Mmm...Nakago-sama..." He stretches catlike, lifting his arms. At some point the silk tore, though neither of us noticed. He blinks up at me, looking for all the world like a waking child. Then he smiles a well-tumbled whore's smile, and the illusion of purity falls away. "Do you know, Shogun, I think I--I think I blacked out for a moment, or went to sleep..."  
  
"Yes." I clear my throat. "It was...intense. To say the least." Of course, I reason; the moment I released control, the Kodoku would have reasserted itself within him. The drug cannot be dispelled by outside force, not permanently. I feel hollow as a drum.  
  
He raises a hand to touch his lips. "Oh yes," he sighs, a blush visible even in the thin moonlight. I do not think it is a blush of shame. "Intense. Wonderful. I will always remember tonight."  
  
"We do not choose our memories, Tamahome," I tell him roughly, stepping over to scoop up our clothing. I clench the dowa scroll tightly enough to crack its wooden binding. "They choose us. Get dressed."  
  
He obeys.  
  
________________________________________________________________________________  
  
We walk back toward the palace. He moves a bit awkwardly, adjusting to the feel of his now-wiser body. There is no dew to tell the story of our steps.   
  
"Nakago-sama," he says quietly as we step onto the West Wing's gravel path. "Will you let me..."  
  
I face him. "Speak."  
  
His eyes are the earnest eyes of a soldier, all traces of the lover gone. "Let me ride into Konan now. Tomorrow. Soon, while I am still strong. I feel so complete now, so powerful! I feel like I could take on the entire Southern Army! Let me go to kill her now," he pleads.  
  
I do not ask who he means. Instead I consider him and his startling request, weighing its practicality. I scratch my chin and sigh. Finally I cannot escape the fact that Tamahome unconflicted is stronger than his suffering self. If he tells me he is prepared, I must believe him. The archer must loose the arrow, however carefully fletched.  
  
"Very well." My voice is measured, expressionless. "Ride before dawn. Target the Suzaku no Miko foremost. Kill the boy Emperor if the chance presents itself, but do not risk yourself unnecessarily for that. As for our Emperor..." My mouth twists, imagining the ease with which he will be distracted. Which undiscovered court virgin will take Tamahome's place? I wonder briefly. Then I realize, I am too exhausted to care any longer. "I will make your excuses."   
  
I remove an earring. It glints in the light of the constellations as I press it into his palm.  
  
"This is not a token," I explain dryly. "It will enable you to speak to me across great distances. Use it prudently."  
  
He nods once, slowly, then turns to go.  
  
I catch his arm. He looks back. "Return it to me. In person."  
  
He stares at me for a moment. I allow it, as I allowed myself that semblance of farewell. Our eyes meet briefly, and I see he takes my meaning. The faint ghost of a smile touches his lips. The next instant he is running into the night, disappearing up the garden path and under the palace eaves. He is gone.   
  
A firefly drifts into the air where he stood moments ago, and I raise my hand to meet it. It lights there, glowing. My eyes close.   
  
Live with it, I told him. I do not believe he will. I do not believe he will ever leave this place again; and if he should return, hands sopped with blood, it will not be the same boy who wept at my touch tonight. That boy is lost forever, buried not on some barren battlefield--helm on sword, shroud of mail, a soldier's honors--but here in the poisoned lap of beauty, a garden grown lush from the tears of innumerable secret griefs.  
  
That garden is where this story ends. I died there as a child myself, you see, and still sleep far beneath the camellias, beyond the power of mortal kiss to wake.  
  
  
  
~owari 


End file.
